


Socks, or A More Contented Life Thereby

by stillscape



Category: Calvin & Hobbes
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve. Only tigers sleep soundly when Santa might be afoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Socks, or A More Contented Life Thereby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NiklasHallin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiklasHallin/gifts).



Hobbes was woken rather rudely. To be fair, he had been woken _more_ rudely at times, but this was plenty rude enough, between the loud noises and the very frigid breeze. He yawned, stretched, and scratched behind one ear. Only then did he open his eyes. 

It was exactly as he had expected: the window was open, and Calvin, dressed in pajamas, parka, and mittens, was just emptying the last desk drawer onto the floor. Its contents—bits and pieces of the latest transmogrifier, mostly—landed atop the contents of Calvin’s dresser drawers. And it was still dark outside. Very dark, in fact. Whether it was Christmas Eve still, or whether it was now Christmas Day, he couldn’t much say. 

Immediately, Hobbes’ toasty red scarf flew in his face. 

“Good, you’re finally up. Let’s go. Right away.” 

“Go?” He glanced outside, and wrapped the toasty scarf around his neck. 

“We have a crisis,” announced Calvin, who was now pulling up the window screen so that he could shove his sled through. He’d balanced the transmogrifier on top. 

“Why is your sled in the bedroom?” 

Calvin ignored this.

“Where do we have to go?” 

Calvin ignored this as well. Shoving the sled through wasn’t going well, as he was too short to get the angle right. The runners kept catching on the sill. Hobbes, allowing a sigh to ripple through the last stripe on his tail, wrapped his scarf around his neck and gave Calvin a helping paw. 

They were on the second floor, of course, but the drop into the yard wasn’t _too_ bad. They’d gone over worse, at least. 

“And why do we have the transmog—”

Two mittened hands pushed Hobbes into the transmogrifier. He heard a loud ZAP. 

“That should do it,” said a voice that had to be Calvin’s, except it was higher and squeakier. 

Hobbes tried to pat down his sides and realized his legs no longer quite bent that way. He craned his neck around to see why, and his antlers poked through cardboard and stuck there. 

_Antlers?_

Calvin sighed. “We’ll have to fix the transmogrifier later. There’s no time now. Here, I made this harness for you.” 

It was only then, as Calvin freed the antlers and dragged him under the glow of a streetlamp, that Hobbes realized he was now a reindeer. He was an orange stripy reindeer, but a reindeer nevertheless. Calvin now had pointy ears, pointy shoes, and a pointy hat to go with his pointy hair.

“To the North Pole!” Calvin cried. “You can fly now, right?” 

Hobbes jumped into the air, and discovered that he could. 

“Maybe I’ll just ride you.” 

“I think not,” said Hobbes. “One has to maintain one’s dignity.” 

Moments later, he was jingling through the night sky, the sled trailing behind him while Calvin tried to explain, in between complaining loudly about his elf outfit’s lack of insulation. 

“You remember I figured out that Santa keeps his gifts to me in a secret storeroom in my mom’s closet.” 

Hobbes nodded. 

“Well, I was minding my own business and definitely not snooping in there at all when I accidentally discovered that Santa had brought me nothing but socks and underwear.” 

“The horrors,” said Hobbes, and then, “Are you sure you weren’t snooping?”

“I was avoiding the bath monsters.” 

“Ah.”

“The point is— _tree_ , Hobbes, fly higher—”

“Sorry.” Hobbes corrected course. 

“The point is, that was last night. So I wrote Santa an angry letter about his choice of gifts.” 

Hobbes remembered this. 

“But then something terrible happened after dinner.” 

“We went to the charity drive after dinner,” Hobbes said. 

“Yes. And did you see what my mom dropped off at the charity drive?” 

“No.” He’d been in the backseat.

Calvin swallowed. “Socks and underwear.”

“So?”

“So those weren’t gifts for _me_. Those were gifts for some poor kid. Some poor kid who’s getting terrible Christmas presents.”

“You know,” said Hobbes, thoughtfully, wondering if Calvin meant _poor_ in the literal or figurative sense, “if you don’t _have_ socks or underwear, those might be awfully nice Christmas gifts.” 

“What, are you crazy? Christmas is for toys. And we have to get to the North Pole before Santa leaves, because that letter I wrote Santa disappeared, which means he’s going to think I’m mad at him. He’ll leave me terrible presents. What if I’m on the naughty list now?” 

“ _Now_?” murmured Hobbes. Calvin, of course, chose to ignore him. 

“So you pull the sled. Once we get there, I’ll fit right in, in this elf outfit. I’ll sneak into Santa’s compound and steal my letter back. I’ll adjust the naughty database if I have to. Santa won’t suspect a thing.” 

“Fine. How do we get to the North Pole?” 

“We go north. Duh.” 

“And which way is that?” 

“I don’t know. You’re the magic reindeer. Aren’t you supposed to have a sense of direction?” 

“Even magic reindeer need compasses,” said Hobbes. As did tigers. He swished his tail for emphasis, and was disappointed to find that the stubby little reindeer tail didn’t emphasize much of anything. 

“Well, try going left for a while.”

. . . . . . . . 

“My toes are cold,” Calvin announced. “Elf boots are awful. They’ve just got these curly toes.”

“I bet you wish you had socks now.” 

Hobbes didn’t look back; he didn’t need to. He could feel Calvin’s glower just fine from in front of the sled.

. . . . . . . . 

“Maybe we should sing a song,” Calvin suggested, hours later. He still didn’t know which way was north, and neither did Hobbes, so they’d just been spiraling over the town, hoping to find clues.

“Maybe we should stop for a bit,” Hobbes countered. “It’s not easy, you know, flying a sled all by yourself.” 

“Fine.” Calvin’s weight shifted, sending the sled to the right. “Down there. There are some lights on in that building.” 

Hobbes turned his neck a bit, so that he could see where Calvin was pointing. Then he nodded and began a graceful descent. 

They landed outside the same community center where, earlier that evening, Calvin’s mom had dropped off socks and underwear. Hobbes was about to note the irony of the situation when Calvin took one step onto an icy sidewalk and wiped out completely. He fell into a partially melted snowbank. Now his pants were soaked through. 

“WHY DON’T ELF BOOTS HAVE NON-SLIP SOLES?” bellowed Calvin, before Hobbes could inquire as to whether he might like some nice dry underwear now. “THEY LIVE ABOVE THE ARCTIC CIRCLE. IT’S ALWAYS ICY.” 

“Ssh,” said Hobbes, pressing a hoof to Calvin’s mouth. “Look. They’re opening presents.” 

But Calvin had fallen silent of his own accord. He was watching the children clustered around the scraggly tree. 

One of the boys, about Calvin’s age (or at least Calvin’s size), started unwrapping a familiar-looking parcel. 

“See?” said Hobbes, watching the unknown boy’s reaction. “Socks aren’t such a bad Christmas present after all.” 

But Calvin was shaking his head. “Socks are still a terrible Christmas present.” He set his jaw. “We have to get to the North Pole, Hobbes.” 

“We still don’t know which way north is.” 

Calvin slipped again. This time, Hobbes managed to align himself fast enough to keep Calvin from falling. 

“I want to tell Santa something important,” he said, as Hobbes reattached himself to the sled. “He needs to give those kids tigers for Christmas.”

. . . . . . . . 

When he woke again, Hobbes was curled in Calvin’s bed, toasty and warm. He flicked his tail, and was pleased to discover that it was properly long and fluffy again. He stretched his paws, and was even more pleased to feel his usual amount of toes (and claws) instead of cloven hooves.

He could hear footsteps outside the door. Calvin remained passed out, motionless; he snored so loudly that Hobbes could barely make out the conversation on the other side of the door. 

“Do you think he’s dead?” whispered Calvin’s mother. 

“Maybe just sick,” whispered Calvin’s father. 

“It’s not like him to sleep past dawn on Christmas.” 

The door creaked open. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, he’s sleeping with the window open.” Calvin’s mom rolled her eyes.

“Do you think maybe we should close it?” 

“We might wake him up.” 

“True,” said his dad. “It is kind of nice, having a quiet morning to ourselves. I wonder how late Calvin was up last night.” 

His parents closed the door, which let out a barely imperceptible _click_. 

“I guess I should get that soggy cardboard box out of the front lawn.” 

“Mm. I wonder how that even got there.” 

“Last-minute Christmas packaging gone astray, no doubt,” chuckled Calvin’s dad. 

After they were safely away, Hobbes poked his sleeping best friend with one furry toe. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered. He figured it was best to get in the well-wishes now, before Calvin’s parents realized their son had gone halfway to the North Pole last night and the usual Christmas furor broke out. 

Calvin didn’t wake, but he did wrap an arm around Hobbes’s middle.

Hobbes purred. 

_Calvin was right_ , he thought, wishing they’d shut the window after their return last night. (For once, Calvin’s feet weren’t like ice. For once, he’d agreed to wear socks to bed.) _All boys **should** have tigers._


End file.
